


Make me a believer

by TooRational



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Canon Compliant, Crack, Flirting, Fluff, Gentleness, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Protectiveness, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-08 07:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15926207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Snippet: a small part, piece, or thing; especially: a brief quotable passage.Or: What I do on tumblr when Desus gives me feels. Or on any given random Thursday.Marked finished because each snippet stands on its own.(Expect no coherency here, it's just bits of softness, kissing, and crack.)





	1. 9x01 script

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A "script" of a we-could-have-had-it-all Desus scene in 9x01, as per my wishful thinking.
> 
> Originally posted on [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/173611756572/snippet-desus-9x01-script).

After the TIMEJUMP.

JESUS enters his trailer at the Hilltop. He looks different: hair up in a bun, dusty armour on, a sword strapped to his belt. We focus on the details as he starts to unbuckle and take off the armour and the weapons, motions practiced but tired.

Suddenly, hands sneak around him and help with the buckles. CLOSE-UP on Jesus’ face, a small smile curving his lips, eyes soft.

JESUS: Hey. Didn’t know you were here.

There’s only a vague hum as the man continues with his task. We can’t tell who it is, just hands and a shadow visible in the low lighting of the trailer.

Soon, Jesus remains only in a shirt and his cargoes, and we see hands reaching for his bun, gently undoing it, fingers running through the strands. Jesus closes his eyes in relief.

JESUS: You staying longer this time?

CAMERA pans up around and we see DARYL’s face, looking back at Jesus. He’s silent for a moment, concentrating on his task, then speaks.

DARYL: Yeah.

DARYL’s lips quirk and he kisses Jesus, chaste but lingering, thumb caressing his cheek.

Jesus smiles into the kiss.

FADE TO BLACK.


	2. Muscles. Shoulders. Arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aby said: I believe the most underrated thing in our ship is how ripped Tom Payne is. Muscles. Shoulders. Arms.
> 
> And I added: The second image is forever going to be my Jesus headcanon, because _look at him_. The man is solid, proportional, muscled in a way that says activity and training but not Hollywood-ideal-dehydrated-carved-sixpack. This is a man that, if you bump into him, you’re gonna _feel_ it.
> 
> And then--
> 
> (Originally posted on [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/176313468022/if-youve-met-tom-payne-in-person-before-youll), image at the beginning.)

[ ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/fb722ec963c2c4469fd48eb4feb1702c/tumblr_pepmufvk3n1xsvny9o1_500.jpg)

…and Daryl would feel it, too, alright.

He’d be surprised how  _good_ solid muscle feels pressed against him, how safe it feels to have a firm body on top of his, how smooth the skin of Jesus’ back is as he’s trailing abstract patterns with rough fingertips.

The weight of Jesus’ thigh on his, of his chest and stomach against Daryl’s, are like anchors weighing him down to this moment, this bed, the quiet of the trailer in the surreal early morning light.

There is strength in Jesus’ body, iron in his blood, in his very bones. Sometimes, Daryl thinks he’s the only one really equipped to deal with any of this shit, the lone wolf that would survive any disaster. Powerful and resilient and true to himself, to an infallible moral compass that no one else seems to possess anymore.

Then again, that last thing might just be what kills him in the end.

Daryl hopes not. Hopes that, against all odds, Jesus’ heart isn’t what proves fatal to him. It’d be a shitty, unfair universe that would allow that to happen. There’s been more than enough of that going on, someone owes them all a break.

Jesus hums, shifts a little, but doesn’t wake up. Daryl slides his hand down Jesus’ shoulder, bicep, palms down his underarm until he can tangle their fingers together under the pillow, Jesus squeezing back reflexively.

He always does that. His body welcomes Daryl in all the ways, whenever they’re close, unconscious or not. Daryl’s never felt anything like it. It humbles him, makes his heart skip a beat every time. Makes him wonder what he did to deserve this man.

If it was a mistake, he’s not giving him back. He’ll fight to the end, like a rabid dog, growl in his chest and blood on his teeth.

Daryl wraps his other arm around Jesus waist and closes his eyes, settled, content; and chases oblivion just for a little while longer.

No better place to be than right here, anyway.


	3. Merle the Matchmaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a picture of Michael Rooker and Tom Payne meeting for the first time (scroll down), to which I said: "Non-Apocalypse AU in which Merle gets hit upside the head and has a complete personality transplant."
> 
> Originally posted on [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/177671349157/syrabylene-toorational-dixonscarol-yep-it), further encouraged and enabled by [syrabylene](https://syrabylene.tumblr.com/post/177648648693/toorational-dixonscarol-yep-it-happened). <3

[ ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/b8501e8b34f5169c57ae6e526c949e3a/tumblr_pepmufvk3n1xsvny9o2_500.png)

Merle, in a text: Daryl, look who I found! Ain’t he cute? You like ‘em cute, right? Lookit that smile, aw.

Merle: His butt ain’t bad, either, but don’t tell him I told you that. It ain’t proper.

Merle: Don’t worry, I’mma get you his number.

Merle: I showed ‘im a picture of you, the one I took the other day when you were fixing your bike, ‘cause I don’t got a picture of you and that’s stupid, you’re my brother and I love you. Anyhoo, he said you was cute, too.

Merle: Hey, where can I get flowers and chocolate and shit? Just remembered I gotta apologize to Michonne.

Merle: And Carol.

Merle: And Glenn, Andrea, Maggie….

Merle: …shit, I’mma need a bigger truck.

*

Daryl, 2 hours later: MERLE. WHY IS SOME GUY TEXTING ME ABOUT MY BUNS AND GUNS? WHAT THE FUCK, MERLE.

Merle: ‘CAUSE I GAVE ‘IM YOUR NUMBER, IT TOOK YOU TOO LONG. 

***

Since Daryl is a complete potato, he never responded to the text. Paul took it in stride, he’s not the type to be all in-your-face, and soon forgot about the weird dude and his hot brother.

Meanwhile, Merle realized they’re both tools and took the matter into his own hands again.

Two weeks later, he  _accidentally_ runs into Paul again, who,  _weirdly_ , has a car that won’t start, which Merle had absolutely  _nothing_  to do with, and wow, look at that! Daryl works as a mechanic  _just a few blocks away_.

Daryl is embarrassed and furious, Paul is embarrassed and slightly weirded out, and Merle just beams like he’s Jane Austen’s Emma (with about as much success in matchmaking).

It would all be a disaster of untold proportions if Fate hadn’t decide to stick their lovely fingers in the situation, intertwining the lives of our reluctant heroes in the most interesting ways…


	4. Daryl and the twirling knife saga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to the The Walking Dead Season 9 ‘Kaleidoscope’ Official Teaser ([here](https://thewalkingdead-hq.tumblr.com/post/177812964153/the-walking-dead-season-9-kaleidoscope-official)).
> 
> Originally posted on [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/177828455667/the-walking-dead-season-9-kaleidoscope-official).

Daryl twirls the knife casually, almost absently, while keeping his face as impassive as he can.

Why? ‘Cause badass hunters, warriors and walker-killers don’t jump up and down screaming ‘yess!’ and doing a happy dance just because they  _finally_ managed to do something cool after weeks of practicing and failing miserably.

Even if they really, really want to.

Okay, so maybe a tiny grin won’t hurt anyone.

“What are you doing?” comes a familiar voice from  _right next to his fucking ear_ , how the fuck does the man manage to sneak up to him every single time, and goddammit, now he jumped.

“Nothin’,“ Daryl says as he spins around, hoping against hope that Paul will forget the jump, and what he saw, and – if there is a god – ignore the flush traveling up his neck.

Paul smirks, and Daryl’s heart skips a beat and sinks simultaneously.

Of course he won’t.

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Looks like you’ve suddenly acquired some actual knife skills. I’m impressed.”

Daryl scowls, as fierce as he can, but Paul’s grin just widens.

“Can I see?” he asks, and for all he pretends to be mad, there’s no way Daryl will say no.

He holds the glare for a beat, then takes out the knife, flips it – hands finally used to the motion and the balance of the weapon – and holsters it with a flush of pleasure.

“Very good,” Paul says (Daryl refuses to call it a  _purr_ , the man is  _not_  a cat, no matter how many walls and trees he scales, no matter how many times he lands on his feet, and no matter how many locked rooms and bonds he vanishes from) and steps closer.

Daryl swallows and carefully doesn’t move a muscle, the warmth radiating from the man almost like a physical touch.

Staring straight into his eyes, Paul takes the knife, flips it from the index finger, to between the index and the middle finger, then middle and ring finger, then all the way back again until he’s holding it properly, all in less than two seconds.

“Wha– why didn’t you show me  _that_?” Daryl asks, outraged (and whining just a little, let’s be honest).

Here he was, all proud of what he knew, what Paul managed to teach him, and the man was holding out on the  _really_ good stuff.

Paul smiles, easy and fond, and puts the knife back into Daryl’s holster.

He doesn’t remove his hand from the knife’s handle.

“Can’t go revealing all my tricks right from the start, now, can I?” he says, and Daryl scoffs.

“Prick.”

Paul raises his eyebrows at that and Daryl closes his eyes, mortified.

Why do the dick jokes just  _fall out of his mouth_ spontaneously around this dude?

Not that it’s a big deal, and Paul reacts more because he knows Daryl gets flustered than anything else, but still,  _still_  it gets to him, every single time.

It’d be much worse if Paul was a dick about it, though. As it is, the teasing turns into Paul’s breath hot against his ear, into a his hand settling gently onto his side, right against his ribs

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Daryl Dixon. And my knife skills and their origins are way at the bottom of that list.”

Daryl locks his knees because this isn’t fair,  _Paul_  isn’t fair, in any way, shape, or form, nor is the kiss pressed against his hot cheek; warm, lingering, and the softest thing that’s touched him in…

Well. Hours? Since the time he saw Paul last, anyway.

And isn’t that kinda… kick-ass.

Paul pulls away suddenly, as if he didn’t just metaphorically shake Daryl’s entire body like a snow-globe, and as he’s leaving, calls over his shoulder, “Wait ‘till you see what I can do with rope.”

Daryl’s brain stalls.

“Wait, _wha–_  Hey, come back here!”

*

(If you want a visual of what Paul did, it’s the move shown in the first five seconds of [ **this video**](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D2so-mJkknX4&t=YjA5MzhmMzljN2YyZWFkNGFlOGQxNWRlYTkyZWJmMDg0NDk2Mjc3YSxET0pGVFdyTg%3D%3D&b=t%3Axi0fdt3awKy2Bam0SJQ-yA&p=https%3A%2F%2Ftoorational.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F177828455667%2Fthe-walking-dead-season-9-kaleidoscope-official&m=0).)


	5. The axe-wielding redneck and the suspicious ninja

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence: first meeting between Paul "Jesus" Rovia and Daryl Dixon happens in season 1.
> 
> Inspired by a gif set made by [daily-walkers](http://daily-walkers.tumblr.com); originally posted on [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/178330884944/daily-walkers-best-of-the-walking-dead-but-like).

But like, imagine this Daryl, this broken man full of rage and pain, steeped in years of abuse and prejudice, meeting Paul "Jesus" Rovia.

He blurts out something offensive within minutes of meeting Paul - which, Paul will soon learn, is what he often does, like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

Paul doesn't react because he's used to it. Rednecks like Daryl can be found everywhere (and not just rednecks). He's not worth half a minute of Paul's time.

Still, it's weird. Rick values him for some reason, trusts him at his back. The fact that he's a skilled hunter and tracker can't be the only reason, right?

To his credit, Daryl doesn't go out of his way to be obnoxious to Paul. On the contrary, he usually maintains a safe, careful distance from him.

The back of Paul's head still tingles from Daryl's eyes, though; a hunter's gaze, searching and unerring. It makes him uncomfortable.

It doesn't help that Daryl is the only one that manages to sneak up on Paul, a mistake he makes only the one time, since Paul flips him to the ground and has a knife to his throat before he even registers who startled him.

Daryl freezes, eyes wide, and Paul trips over himself to back off, because this is bad, this definitely _isn't_ the way to stay with this group. And he likes this group.

"Sorry, sorry, I…"

"'S ok," Daryl rasps as he slowly gets up. "Good reflexes."

Paul blinks at him, nonplussed.

"Thanks."

The next time they have to split up, Daryl offhandedly suggests that Paul should be the one to stay back with the group. Paul waits for the catch, a disparaging comment on his looks, or his ability to take care of himself, but when Shane asks why, Daryl says it's because Paul can protect the others.

Paul can only stare at Daryl in shock.

Going by the looks they share, Rick and Shane either doubt Paul's abilities or don't think he's trustworthy enough for the task, but that's fine. Paul is used to having to prove his worth ten times over. The apocalypse is the last place to be naive and trusting anyway.

Later, when Paul tries to thank him, Daryl just shrugs and says, "It's the truth, ain't it?"

It's strangely comforting, to have someone take him at face value. Not the persona he projects, not as a representative of one of the countless labels he has, just… him. Paul.

A guy who can take care of himself in the apocalypse, apparently.

When Daryl finds out Paul's gay, more by virtue of being sneaky enough to be at the wrong place at the wrong time than anything else, Paul can literally _see_ the moment he reels himself in, decides to swallow the knee-jerk comment on the tip of his tongue.

It's more than a lot of people would do, reevaluating everything they've been taught, and Paul appreciates it more than he can say.

It also makes him wonder, for the umpteenth time: who the hell is this guy?

Turns out, he's a man with more integrity than the actual cop in the group.

Turns out, he's the person who saves all their lives all the damn time and in countless ways, be it by providing food, protection, expertise, support, or a sarcastic quip just when you need it.

Turns out, he's someone who's managed to grow up into a good person despite his crappy childhood, his abusive family, his narrow-minded upbringing, his stifling surroundings, his hopeless and bleak living conditions.

Turns out, he's Paul's…

Well.

Turns out, he's simply _Paul's_.


	6. A Shitty Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **neekanoo** : A little birdie by the name of **syrabylene** told me you might need this. Hope it makes your day a little better. ♥
> 
> And for **abigailht** : You know why. I’m proud of you. ♥
> 
> Originally posted on [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/178523710357/snippet-a-shitty-day).

Today was a supremely shitty day.

Not that there's a tangible reason for it. Paul's had tons of worse days, even before the apocalypse. In fact, if he tries to rank the Shit Days of His Life, this one wouldn't even make the top 50.

Maybe that's why it gets to him. Because it's not a Single Awful Thing, it's more of a bunch of small ones, stacking themselves one atop the other, atop the other, atop the other, until he's left raw and frustrated and _angry_.

Jesus slips away entirely, rips apart like wrapping paper under an eager child's hands, and _Paul_ of old (Paul the abandoned child, Paul the gay kid, Paul the _other_ , always different, always unwanted, always alone) emerges.

And _Paul_ wants to _scream_.

He wants to scream until he's hoarse, gasping, empty; and he's _thisclose_ to doing it, even though he can't, even though it's night and everyone would be scared shitless by it.

_Paul_ doesn't _fucking care_.

If he moves, he'll kick and punch. If he unclenches his jaw, he'll bite and won't let go until someone pries his mouth open with a crowbar. The blood on his hands and teeth would be a relief right now, a welcome distraction.

But he can't have that (Paul can't _ever_ get what he wants, it's written in the stars), and so he stands, mind ruling over body and emotion ruthlessly, every muscle locked into painful immobility. Stone would probably be softer and more malleable.

The doors creak and footsteps draw near, and oh, he knows who it is without looking.

It's the only person he hasn't managed to drive away.

Daryl doesn't need an explanation, he never does. He reads Paul like he reads everyone else: quickly, accurately, as instinctively as he hunts. The hesitation lasts a second, and then Paul hears the clank of the crossbow being put down, the click and swoosh of knives being unbuckled, twin thumps of boots being taken off.

He closes his eyes.

Daryl is merely heat as he stops in front of him, still and quiet. Always watching, noticing more than Paul wants him to. It's as impressive as it is infuriating.

And then Daryl reaches out and gently untangles Paul's hair from his bun. The shirt is next, knuckles brushing Paul's skin every so often. He unbuttons Paul's shirt sleeves and lingers on each of Paul's wrists for a few seconds.

Paul's eyes burn, but he still doesn't open them. Shame and fear swirl into a sickening mix in his belly, adding to the already overflowing mess he had in there, and it _hurts_.

Calloused palms wrap around Paul's shoulders, slide down his biceps, arms, a fiery trail of care and tenderness, and something inside him cracks.

The shirt falls to the floor and Paul crumples with it, defenses giving with an almost audible snap.

Daryl catches him (how does he do it, how does he know, _how_ ), folds him into an embrace that's almost painful, arms like bands of steel around him. They're the only thing keeping Paul from splintering into a thousand pieces, sharp and deadly enough to shred his insides. Paul sinks into Daryl, shaking, hides his face because he can't, he just _can't_.

Breathing is a chore, his eyes can't stop watering, every inch of his skin feels stretched over his bones, dry and brittle and fragile. But he's going to be okay, he's going be fine.

Daryl's got him.

A kiss is pressed to his temple, soft and scratchy, and Paul swallows a sob as a wave of gratefulness rolls over him. What did he ever do to deserve this?

Daryl nudges and tugs, and Paul follows ( _he always will_ ) as Daryl shuffles them carefully to the bed. The grip Daryl has on him loosens a little, but he doesn't let go. He won't, not till the morning; he'd stay there the entire day, if Paul asked.

(Paul still can't believe it, waits for it to change; _fears_ it will change, every day. But if Daryl is anything, he's true.)

He relaxes, muscle by muscle, emotion by emotion, hard won inch by inch, until all he feels is Daryl.

_Daryl_ , hard and scarred, calm and steady. Daryl, the prickly balm to his wounds, the unlikely other half to his puzzle. Daryl, whose arms feel like home, whose heartbeat is as vital as his own.

Paul falls asleep; safe, warm, protected.

Loved.


	7. Assassin!Jesus AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by **nossik** 's fanart; originally posted on [tumblr](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/178710805647/syrabylene-nossik-som-doodles-amidst).

*tilts head*

The second piece gives me assassin!Jesus feels like whoa.

You know, one of those half-myth, half-shadow people, who you only notice if he allows you to. The bogeyman for the most vile of people, the contract killer going after the rich, the powerful, or anyone who considers themselves above the law.

There are whispers on the streets about him, how he's unstoppable, how you'd have a better chance at capturing a wisp of smoke. How he has Death itself following at his heels like an obedient dog, his to command.

How unnatural it all is.

If you have the misfortune of ending up on his list, the last thing you'll hear are sharp blades whistling through the air, slicing so quick and true you're dead before you know it; the last thing you see electric blue eyes, beautiful and deadly.

They call him Jesus because he delivers the city from evil, takes on the sins of wrath and murder so others don't have to, purges the streets of the wicked. Some think he's a hero, some a vigilante, some the Devil himself.

It's all bullshit, in Paul's opinion. Hilarious, too. (He avoids thinking about the burden of such a name, the persona he so foolishly attached to his woefully inadequate shoulders.)

He's just a fucked up guy with a particular skill set, one who decided to make a difference for the better one day, instead of continuing on his path of being a plague on humanity. He'll never break even, or undo the damage he's done, but he'll try.

He'll die trying.

He has a cheap apartment in a bad part of town; a hiding bolt and a weapons cache in a slightly better one, with a state-of-the-art security system. The nature of his job makes it impossible to have any relationships deeper than one-night stands or nod-while-passing-by acquaintances.

It's a dull, pitiful existence most of the time, but one he deserves. A small price to pay for his soul _maybe_ not going to the deepest level of hell.

It had been just a matter of time before he made a mistake, really. Figures it would happen on a Tuesday; everything that ever went wrong in his life happened on a Tuesday.

His hands are slick with blood – his own for a change, first time in a long while – and his vision is getting spotty, but he keeps the pressure on his abdomen. Guess there's a part of him that doesn't want to die after all.

He doesn't hear the man approach over the sound of his own breathing, harsh and loud in his ears, and gets only the vague outline of messy hair and broad shoulders before there's a hand on his, pressing down so hard Paul can't stifle a pained yelp.

"Fuckin' dumbass, tryin' to get yourself killed," the man mutters, and then, louder, "Don't you dare stab me, I'm tryin' to help."

Paul wants to laugh, quip something funny and sarcastic, ask who the fuck he is and why should Paul believe a word he says, but the man lifts him and pain slams into him, overwhelming and relentless.

He blacks out.

*

When he comes to, he's patched up and lying on a ratty old couch in an apartment with the same layout as his (yep, that's the same view as from his windows, maybe a little lower?), to a man who says his name is Daryl and claims Paul's not as stealthy as he thinks he is.

"The whole neighborhood knows, you dumbass. They all made me tail you whenever I could. You're nuts, you know that? What the hell's wrong with you?"

Paul would flush in embarrassment if he hadn't already lost enough blood to feel faint if he moves his head too fast. Instead, he stares as Daryl rants – arms on his hips and all – completely at a loss.

"There's a better way to do this than throw yourself in danger willy-nilly like a damn fool, alright? Folks 'round here would line up to help you, and when I tell 'em the cat's out of the bag, you won't get a moment of peace, I swear. Just you wait."

Paul blinks, and wonders why that sounds like a threat. Human contact is generally a good thing in his book.

"Now stop your fussin' and go back to sleep. Denise and Siddiq are gonna have my head if you tear out your stitches."

Daryl throws an extra blanket at his head and moves to the tiny kitchen area, banging around with purpose. He appears to be making... tea? In a large soup pot?

Paul settles back into the couch with a wince and stares at the ceiling, looking over at Daryl covertly every few minutes.

_Surreal._

This whole thing could still turn out to be a dream, or a pain-induced hallucination. The afterlife, maybe? (Yeah, he should be so lucky.)

His head says 'be careful', but his gut says 'stay', 'relax', ' _trust_ for once'. It's foolish, and reckless, just like Daryl said, but it feels _right_.

So he stays.

*

(The day after, he learns that Daryl wasn't lying, and the 'not being left alone' part _was_ a threat.)

(He can't bring himself to resent any of them.)


End file.
